


What Is Love (Baby Don't Hurt Me)

by serein



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alcoholism, Doubt, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, German National Team, Hurt/Comfort, I Wish You Would, I've not done this idea justice, Inspired by Music, Jealousy, Kiesza, M/M, Memories, Nostalgia, Only slight angst, Retirement, Schweinski, Schweinski Valentine's Challenge, Slight Alternate Universe, Songfic, Suspicion, Taylor Swift - Freeform, Uncertainty, Valentine's Day, What is love, challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serein/pseuds/serein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 2015 Schweinski Valentine's Day Challenge.<br/>-<br/>Love. 7° of it.</p><p>{in which bastian explores love, and what it is. inspired by kiesza's cover of haddaway's what is love.}</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Is Love (Baby Don't Hurt Me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vulcanistics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulcanistics/gifts).



> The Valentine's Day Challenge, among other collections, is hosted by the intimidating but very congenial [HG_Rising](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HG_Rising). Check her out if you haven't yet, along with all of my fellow writers who submitted for the challenge!
> 
> I've dedicated this to the prolific and amiable [vulcanistics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulcanistics) as she got us (Max and I) into this mess in the first place; to anyone reading this: her work is definitely worthy of your time. Check her out, guys!
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> Set to Kiesza's spellbinding [cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y-01dsXDqGE) of Haddaway's 90's hit.

* * *

The terrace is roofed by a pergola, veined by reticular patterns of grapevines. The night is aging quickly, but the yellow lights of distant towers and countless cars continue to scintillate upon the dark backdrop of the sky. The temperature tips just slightly into the bitter realm of the cold, and the remote honks of annoyed taxis echo eerily.

Bastian Schweinsteiger, greyed after countless New Years' Eve celebrations and midnight kisses, stands at the edge, grasping the barrier with a strange amount of strength from a man his age. Stoic, he ignores the endearing call from his partner inside to get himself a coat or _else_.

Closing his eyes, he tries to lose himself in the moment, suspend himself within time -

And the memories come quick, vignettes captured in red-tinted Super 8 film, scintillating dreams of yore, clandestine hopes -

All he can do is wait.

* * *

**i. STORGE**

The first is quick, and easy.

Fleeting, but overzealous in nature.

Sledding.

The world is seen through wide-eyed, innocent eyes unadulterated. His hair's a quiet beeline blond, all bangs and no spikes. Bundled in a thick, thick off-white coat, he resembles a half-roasted marshmallow with an appendage sticking out here and there.

The snow is clean.

Gleaming.

Tobias, in all his sweetness, lets bouncy little Bastian hold onto him from behind. Wrapping his arms around his older brother, Bastian holds on dearly, squeezing his eyes close for just a single moment in the first second of vertigo.

The two rush down the slope in a melting pot of an equal amount of terror and elation. Tobias, clutching the thin strip of rope that helms the sled, veers the two right sharply to navigate around a fallen branch, letting out a wolf-like whistle of both fear and raw euphoria. Bastian himself screams , and he can almost hear his mother at the top of the slope suck in her breath nervously. Squeezing his brother's down-coat covered torso even tighter, his eyes bug at the sight of the sharp ravine just four hundred feet or so away. Tobias sees it too, and in due time - he veers the sled right again. The red sled, in all its magnificent stupor, slides out of control and in a blaze of fear, Tobias lets go of the rope. This time, their mother screams - she's already rushing down the slope in her moment of sheer terror.

Instead of tumbling over the ravine, though, the boys fall unsoundly into a heap of powdery snow. The cold is stark, vindictive. Pushing the snow off his body, Tobias is the first to get out of it. Seeing his little brother stranded inside, wiggling and squirming, he giggles and bit by bit, gets all of the snow off of Bastian (but not without an accidental smack to the face by Bastian, in all his frenetic movement). Their mother arrives, cursing the ruthless audacity of her sons whilst grinning ear-to-ear. Once free, the little blond boy stands up, taking Tobi's hand to pull him forward. Their mother rushes towards them, and tackles the boys in the snow, kissing their cheeks dearly while scolding their stupidity.

"Never again, okay, you two? You almost gave your mother a heart attack! Don't-"

"Mummy, we weren't trying to do that to you! It just - it just - happened!" Tobias replies apologetically, unsure of what is to happen next.

"Tobias, you know better than to veer your little brother-"

"Mummy, I'm fine! Can we go get some ice cream?"

The matron Schweinsteiger looks at her boys, the two of them to the right and left of her on the snow-crested ground. Seeing their hopeful grins and covert glances at each other, she sighs and gives in. Standing up, she pinches the bridge of her nose for a second.

"Okay. But no chocolate ice cream."

"But Mummy! The whole point of ice cream is for the chocolate ice cream!"

"You'll ruin your teeth, Basti. Now, don't you argue with me-"

"Mummy..." The boys pout in unison, protruding their upper lips just slightly.

"Okay! Okay! It's Valentine's Day! I'm doing this one time - one time only! And this is only because I love you two. Don't you tell your father, or he'll skin me alive-"

Bastian cuts in. "Yay! We love you, Mummy! We won't tell Da, we promise!"

And in that little moment, Bastian feels utterly, utterly loved - an innocent, carefree kind of love that was light and warm and simple.

* * *

**ii. PHILIA**

The second is quick, and proud.

It comes within the seventeenth year of the age-old program called Living, and when it happens, Bastian's future seems to open like a yawning chasm, all stale ghosts of empty promises and no rich personifications of full dreams.

There is a moment - a moment right there, a teammate knocking him playfully on the head, hundreds of pairs of eyes upon his tousled bout of hair and high cheekbones - that he wishes things would never change, that he could live in this time capsule of sheer ecstasy, surrounded by a fistful of gold confetti and a thick aura of floating euphoria. His name - _Schweinsteiger_ \- reverberates through the crowd, a pulsating beat of enviable enthusiasm and fortified support. Pain in his ankle is assuaged gently by the taste of stark victory.

"Basti, Basti!"

Somebody is calling for him. The voice is sweet, melodious, filled with conviction.

"Basti! Look at me, you idiot!"

"Wha-"

"Behind you!"

"Oh! Hi, hi, hi! How does it feel to be world champion, my dear Striker?"

"We're not world champions, Basti, we've just won the youth league. What are you talking about?"

"Striker! Do not devalue our accomplishments! How does it feel?"

"It feels good, Midfield! How does it feel to be an asshole?"

The striker runs off, laughing, and Basti finds himself chasing after him, wind cool against his cheek.

"Come back here, you bastard!"

"Hah! I guess today's the day that I win the running race, Basti!"

"No fair, Striker! You got a head start!" Basti's feet pound harder against the slightly wet grass, each step more measured than the last, slick drumbeats lost into the earth.

"C'mon, old man, catch up!"

"I'm younger than you! I'm 17, you're 18 already!"

"You're still the old man, midfield!"

And it is then - it is then, running on a pitch, hundreds of pairs of eyes on him and his jersey, that Bastian realizes he's entranced in another kind of love - a brotherly love with the Striker, a love defined just by being together, doing something together. And they were doing something, alright. They were setting themselves up for the future -

The future.

It seems so large, so terribly massive, this maw of struggle and strife and dreams crushed like fine sugar -

But he isn't supposed to think about that now, is he?

Now - now - now he's supposed to be so tightly wrapped in the golden rhapsody of the victory that he should suffer from amnesia about all of the pressure.

Now he's supposed to wallow in love and pride and hope.

Love.

Love.

"Hey, striker!"

The words jump out of his mouth, lynxes snooping out, cautious but present.

The lean forward stops for a moment in his escape.

"What, midfield?"

"Do you love me, asshole?"

"No!"

"Yeah, you do! Admit it, asshole!"

"Like a brother! Happy?"

"No. You're supposed to love me like a boyfriend!"

"You know I already have one of those, you stupid midfielder!"

"Oh, right! Sorry for asking you to cheat on him!"

"It's okay, midfield! Now stop wasting your damn breath and come catch me!"

Bastian laughs, the rapture floating around him hazily in melodious preciousness. Pushing himself to move faster, he experiences a slow, cool, golden feeling in the bottom of his stomach - the feeling of being loved in the second degree.

* * *

**iii. LUDUS**

The third is quick, and easy, and proud.

It's not white like the first degree, or golden like the second one - it's pink.

Because of, well, cheeks.

The magazines herald him as the next German great, as the next footballer who would revolutionize the sport-

But then, at training camp, his eyes meet a pair of Polish blue eyes, clear, open, determined.

They were foreign, but not unlike his own, because they shared a common spirit.

Mischief.

Bastian would learn from a scheming Michael Ballack that the Polish eyes belonged to one Lukas Podolski - a name that would cause him years of laughter, sorrow, trouble, and peace.

Philipp had not expected this, the diminutive captain had told Bastian later on, when the two of them had already retired.

He had not expected for one of his best forwards to fall deeply in love with one of his best midfielders.

Well, he had expected that part - according to Philipp, the Polish forward had been brutally obvious ever since the very beginning that he had fallen fast for the blond. But Bastian, in his block-mindedness and clueless attitude when it came to love, couldn't even see through it for four - _four_ years. It had never occurred to him that the handsome Lukas had been in love with him for quite a while. It was not until they were stationed at a Bavarian training camp 2010 when a young Thomas Müller had yelled - quite excitedly, of course - across the football pitch that _LUKAS PODOLSKI HAD A MAJOR CRUSH ON BASTIAN SCHWEINSTEIGER_ that Bastian had realized this at all.

Thomas been shut up by a grinning Miroslav Klose, who'd hushed the youngster but slapped Lukas hard enough on the back that the younger Polish man turned even redder, which seemed inhumanly possible to an onlooking Bastian, for Lukas already seemed to be forty shades of the color.

"Hey, Podolski!" 

Thomas had started, albeit a reprimanding glance from Miro, to which he shrunk back from. 

"Are you going to ask him out, Basti?" 

At this, Lukas had covered his face in his hands, face burning from the embarrassment. 

"You know what, Thomas? That's exactly what I'm going to do." 

Lukas had jerked up at that moment, looking straight at Bastian, dead-set. 

"Are you serious, Bastian Schweinsteiger? I swear, if you're trying to-" 

"So, will you go out with me?" 

"Bastian, don-" 

"Will you? I swear, if you say no, I will pound you into the ground." 

"I want to say yes but-" 

"Oh, shut up. Steakhouse at eight. It's Valentine's Day, but I don't really care, ya know? I'll get us a reservation. In the meantime, Philipp, do you want to go hit the weight room?" 

The captain had nodded vigorously, not giving Bastian the satisfaction of the smile. The two - one blond, tall, and the other short, brunette - march off the pitch, leaving the astonished group of footballers in their wake. 

Bastian shows up at their date dressed in black - black tie, black shoes, black pants, black suit jacket - it was just the collared shirt that took on a stark, harsh white. Lukas, on the other hand, dressed himself in a suspicious amount of white and red. 

"Are you -?" 

"What? Am I that handsome, Bastian, that you can't even digest me showing up? Not to mention the appetizer..." 

"Why are you wearing red? And _white_? Together? That's like, English colors! Lukas, I swear, if I've taught you a single thing in fashion- 

"Yeah, yeah, but I like white! And red! They're pretty colors!" 

"Wait, how old are you?" 

"24. Like you!" 

"You sound like, I don't know, 5 years old. Like Thomas." 

"Are you just going to criticize me the entire time, or are you going to tell me that I look good?" 

Bastian's taken aback, for a second, but looking at Lukas longer, looking into Lukas' clear, blue eyes that had made him notice the forward in the first place, he realizes that the man in front of him is the most handsome man he has ever seen in his entire life. 

"You...you look amazing." 

Lukas still blushes, which Bastian finds terribly adorable. "Hey, Lukas?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you know you were blushing again?" 

"Oh, am I? Sorry, I -" 

"Hmm. Why do you tease compliments out of me when you're so embarrassed by them, love?" 

"I - I - I -" 

"Oh, stop it, you. Don't you stutter at me. You literally told me twenty seconds ago that you wanted me to tell you that you looked good. So I did. And you do look good. Err, you look amazing-" 

And suddenly, Bastian feels his cheeks warm up too - they flush, and redden. 

_No. No. No. This cannot be real._

_I am_ not _blushing because of Lukas fucking Podolski._

"You're blushing, too." 

_Shit._

"Imagine if the press hears about you and I on a date, blushing. What do you think the fans would think?" 

"I don't know, maybe they'd be upset that they couldn't date the most handsome man on the planet." 

"I can't determine whether you're being ruthlessly egotistical, or talking about me. If it's the latter, you're very smooth, Mr. Podolski." 

"Oh, I'm smooth, alright, Schweini. You'll find out _how_ smooth I am once we move onto the bedroom..." 

"Hold your horses, cowboy. Personally, I think...we should take it slow." 

"Taking it easy, then?" 

"Yeah." 

Impulsively, Bastian's fingers dart forward and latch onto Lukas' hand, which is casually thrown upon the tablecloth. Startled, the brunette looks up at the blond, only to see a shy, impish smile and grinning eyes. 

"Well, so much for taking it slow." 

"Yeah, I guess. You'll kiss me in the car?" 

"No." 

Bastian mocks hurt. 

"Why?" 

"Because...I'm going to kiss you now, Bastian Schweinsteiger, unless you don't want me to, then-" 

"Oh, shut up, asshole." 

Leaning over, the blond plants a big, fat, wet kiss on the brunette's cheek. Pulling away, satisfied, Bastian suddenly finds Lukas' pair of lips right back on his own, kissing the blond with twice the amount of might. 

Breaking apart, they smile at each other. 

"Yeah, we've pretty much buried the 'take it slow' idea from like, I don't know, a minute ago." 

"We're spontaneous shits, aren't we?" 

"Yup." 

And the two kiss the night away, the third degree of love tying itself neatly to Bastian's little heart. 

* * *

**iv. EROS**

The fourth isn't quick, but it's easy. Kind of.

It is three years in when Bastian first realizes that something is wrong.

And the unfortunate thing is that his realization is on the day that it shouldn't be, of all days in the year: Valentine's Day.

A day of love, and love, and love.

(Not unlike the Beatles song.)

He is in the middle of the flower shop, rifling through stacks of peony bouquets when it happens. Half of the bouquets dead, Bastian tries relieve himself of what seems to be the inevitable rush of nervous anxiety that always follows with the bitterly rueful February 14th each and every year. The dread of picking an unsuitable, unwelcome gift runs with a particularly nasty streak of overwhelming doubt always seems to make itself the soundtrack during this accursed week.

A vendetta of complicated thoughts flit through him like startled blue morpho butterflies, burning blue-on-black in his mind.

_What if he doesn't love me, and I'm just wasting my time?_

The thought is dangerous.

_Of course he loves me. Why wouldn't he love me? We've been together for, what, three years?_

_But what if he doesn't?_

_He has to. He can't not._

_But he can._

Dropping the stack of peonies with a casual thud, he pulls his smartphone, cased in black.

_Should I call him?_

_No, that'll seem weird and needy._

_For fuck's safe, I've been dating Lukas for three fucking years, why should I care about whether he thinks I'm needy or not?_

_Because if he realizes..._

_If he realizes what? That I'm a desperate, stupid little shit that can't let go of him?_

But before he realizes, he's already typed Lukas' number - which he, playing the role of a good boyfriend, has memorized - into the phone's dialing pad, and it's already ringing before he can press the adequate number of _backspaces_ needed to forget about this entire thing.

"Hello? Bastian, are you calling me?"

_What the fuck am I supposed to say?_

"Luk-Lukas, I need to come talk to you sometime soon."

"Wait, where are you, babe? Aren't you coming back home after shopping?"

_Oh, right. They lived together._

"Yeah, I..."

_I really want to ask you if you love me._

"Bastian? Are you still there?

"Yes, I wanted to know whether - whether..."

_I can't do it. Fuck. Why can't I do it?_

"Weather...? It's like, 0 degrees outside, Basti. Remember, this is why I suggested we go to Ibiza for our Valentine's Day! Why you refuse me I still don't understand."

"I wanted to know whether you liked roses, or peonies."

_Good. I didn't do it._

"I - wait, what? Basti, you fool! Are you buying me flowers?"

"Yeah, I-"

"Cliché. I expected better." Bastian can almost see Lukas, hair only half-dry, smirking.

And then - and then Bastian hears a voice.

A voice that he recognizes, and definitely isn't Lukas'.

_"Who is on the phone, Łukasz?"_

The thick Polish is unmistakable. It's none other than Miro.

Miro.

Why was he together with Lukas? Why were they together? How could they be together? Without telling Bastian?

_Why didn't Lukas tell me?_

Still, he's cautious. "Lukas, who's there? Is there someone with you? Where are you?"

There's a spot of static, and Bastian can just make out Lukas' voice whispering something to Miro, the pitch augmented.

"Basti, Miro's here at our house. You don't mind, do you?"

_Shit._

"No, it's okay."

_It was not okay._

"OK, good! I was afraid you would be jealous."

_"What does he want, Łukasz?_

The voice is back, and Bastian feels as Miro's slow, simple words sear through his heart and through his conscience.

"I don't want anything, _Miro_. I was just asking my Luki a question."

_Shit, was that too defensive?_

_But he's my boyfriend in the first place. I should have the right to be defensive._

Lukas, seemingly sensing the tension between the two, jumps back in.

"I like peonies better, Basti. But don't get me flowers. Those are so basic, so unoriginal...you really don't have to get me anything, you know that, right?"

_Except if I don't get you something, Manuel will fucking kill me._

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll be home soon, babe. We can talk then."

"Oh, do you have something you want to say? Should I ask Miro to leave, or...?"

"Yes! I mean, no. It's okay. I'll talk to you when I get home, okay?"

"M'kay."

Faintly, he hears heavy footsteps - Miro's - tread against their wooden floor, and listens as the older man and Lukas talk.

"Lukas, are you still there?"

"Ye, baby, what's up?"

"I - actually, nothing. I'll tell you later."

"Okay. I have to tell Miro goodbye, okay? He has to go take the twins to a basketball game."

_Karma must be on my side today._

"Kay. Bye."

It isn't until when he's home and cuddling on the sofa with Lukas that he brings it up again.

It as in, well, the question.

"Hey, Lukas?"

"Yeah?"

The brunette, sitting suggestively on Bastian's lap, turns around to face his lover.

"Earlier, I...I just wanted to ask you a question."

"Wait, you did! I told you peonies. Were you not listening to me? Bastian-

"No, that's wasn't the actual question?"

"Why'd you ask it then?"

"Because...because..."

"You're not one to stutter, Bastian. C'mon, get it together, man."

"Because I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

Absentmindedly, Lukas takes Bastian's cold, cold hand in his own warm one, and he starts rubbing small circles into the blond's palm.

"I'm afraid of...us."

"Wait, what?"

"I'm afraid of us, Luki. I'm afraid that I'll lose you."

"Wait, okay, that's totally different from 'us'. And why the fuck would you worry about that?"

"Because...I don't know? You being distant recently? Plus you've been disappearing to his house for the last three weeks without telling me."

"His?"

"Miroslav's."

"Basti, I-

"I know. I get it. I'm paranoid. But I keep thinking, what if? You know, what if you don't love me like you say you do? What if you think you know love, but you don't? What if you love someone else - and are just trying to make me hurt less? And how do I understand? How do I know that you're not off somewhere, loving some other man? Some other woman? Some other person?"

"Bastian. Bastian. Bastian. Listen to yourself. Wh-why would I cheat on you? Why would I cheat on you, Bastian, of all people? Why would I do such a thing? You. Are. Absolutely. Perfect. To me. Do you hear me, Basti?"

"I know, but-

"Bastian. I love you. I really, really do. And I get it - I've been distant. I've been at Miro's often...but only because, well, Sylwia's...sick. And he needs some help. So I thought it would only be fair if I did..."

"But how do I know you're not lying?"

Lukas sighs, and he repositions himself so that he's straddling Bastian, and their faces are so close that their noses are practically bumping into each other.

"You have to trust me. In a relationship, we have to trust each other - or nothing will work out."

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course I do."

"But can I trust you?"

"Bastian, whether you trust me or not, that's up for you to decide. But I will tell you this: if you can't trust me, if you can't hold onto the fact that I will _never, ever_ cheat on you or turn my back on you or anything like that, than I have to give up. I love you. Really. I really, really love you."

"Lukas..."

"I'll let you make up your mind, love. I'm going to-"

Leaning forward, Bastian captures Lukas' lips on his own, adrenalin rushing through his veins like iron and steel - hard, dry, and rough. They kiss for an eternity - and for a second, Bastian remembers their very first date when they did something like this - hand in hand, kissing their lives out.

When Lukas breaks apart, he giggles gently.

"Well, looks like you made up your mind up quite quickly..."

"Looks like it. Hey, do you remember-"

"Yeah."

"How-"

"Because that was the best day of my life."

"Really?"

"Yes. Because it was that day when you told me you loved me back - or at least kind of loved me back. That was enough for me."

Bastian's enraptured by Lukas' confessional - and there in that moment, he understands that he will love Lukas - be it through hell or through highwater - until the end. Satisfied, he basks in the intense, powerful, and passionate beam of the fourth degree of love.

* * *

**v. AGAPE**

The fifth is quick, but not easy nor proud. 

Lukas has broken up with him - it was an impromptu performance of tears, torn hearts, and sore throats, but without the theatrical component of it all. 

Bastian had spiraled downwards from there - his life unraveled, his dreams had shattered, his future unstable. Alcohol became a companion who was more familiar to Bastian than the people who had told him originally to stay away from the brown bottles that had dominated the last eight months of his life. 

Thomas had tried, once - it was a sobering conversation that didn't end up making Bastian a sober man. 

And slowly, he scared his friends away. They drifted out of his life minute by minute, hour by hour, jacket by jacket, bottle by bottle until he had none left. 

The bottle helped him lose himself. It took away the plain fear and the complex anger. His health depreciated; after two doctors' visits ending in a diagnosis of probable liver failure if he continued his habit, he stopped going. He stopped paying his bills - soon, the government was sending weekly notices to deal with real estate taxes and the gas company had already cut off his electricity and his water. It wasn't far from when they cut off his heating. 

So, naturally, on Valentine's day, he's wandering the streets of München a cold, almost frostbitten vagrant, stomach half-empty, eyes worn by time and desperation, soul covered in thick, black tar. He carries five meager euros on him - in his sad, sad state, he's going to buy flowers. 

For himself, of course. He no longer has anyone else to buy them for. 

_It's not like there isn't a quiet dignity to buying flowers for yourself._

_Oh, who the fuck am I kidding?_

_This is the saddest thing I've ever done in my life._

Bastian's almost to the flower shop (in all its filigreed, glass-paneled glory) when he hears a voice - a raspy, raspy one. 

A hurt, raspy one. 

Looking down, he sees a man - probably in his forties, but Bastian doesn't dare ask - looking up at him with empty, forlorn eyes. 

He's saying something, and Bastian's ears are not sharp enough to catch what he's saying. 

"Excuse me?" 

"P..." 

_What does he want?_

"Could you say that again? I can't hear you, man." 

The mumble becomes audible, and Bastian's shocked by the simplicity of it. 

"Please." 

_Please?_

_Please what?_

"Please?" 

"Please." 

The man's eyes bore into Bastian's, and by some odd nature, Bastian feels like he knows this man. 

"Do I know you?" 

"Please." 

"Who are you?" 

"Please." 

Sitting on his haunches, Bastian comes to eye level with the man. Legs splayed, arms hanging limply, skin clearly affected by some sort of melanoma, Bastian is unsure how long this man has to live. 

But his eyes - 

His eyes burn. 

"Please." 

Crackling across Bastian's thin, skinny heart like wildfire, the man's tiny, tiny word,bespeckled with ruminant futures and half-lost into chilled air, hits Bastian in the very core. 

_Holy fucking shit._

Spellbound and compelled, Bastian pulls his wallet out shakily. 

_This is what will happen to me, if I don't get it together. And I...I might not be as lucky as this guy to have someone to give him five euros._

Bastian gives the man the wrinkled bill, hands quaking like mad. The man's eyes widen, and one of his hands - oddly scarred - reaches forward to accept the money. 

_Five euros._

_Five euros are like treasure to him._

_I cannot end up like this._

The vagrant man smiles at Bastian, weakly. Furrowing his eyebrows, Bastian gets up and starts back in the direction home. Before the man on the ground can whisper a solemn, honest _thank you_ , Bastian is already gone. 

There will be no more alcohol tonight. 

That night, right before Bastian falls asleep, four words beat like steady marching drums in his head in the voice of the vagrant man, whom Bastian is sure will visit him in his dreams that night. 

_You._

_Are._

_Still._

_Loved._

_You._

_Are._

_Still._

_Loved._

_You._

_Are._

_Still._

_Loved._

His dreams are rich, full, and wonderful - and Bastian smiles serenely in his sleep, the fifth degree of love finishing off its work. 

* * *

**vi. PHILAUTIA**

The sixth degree is grey, like the color of wrinkled, old paper passed through several pairs of hands and hundreds upon hundreds of miles.

For it constitutes of letters.

Because letters, like relationships, take patience, and time, and honesty, and a certain flair to make them good.

OCTOBER 1ST

Dear Lukas,

I hope you're well.

Thanks.

Bastian Schweinsteiger.

OCTOBER 2ND

Dear Lukas,

I hope you got my first letter. If you didn't, well. I hope you're doing good.

Thanks.

Bastian Schweinsteiger.

OCTOBER 6TH

Dear Lukas,

I think I'm already considered a maniac. Three letters in 6 days! I hope you're doing good.

Thanks.

Bastian Schweinsteiger.

OCTOBER 15TH

Dear Lukas,

Maybe I'm the only one in the world who still writes letters, and the post office just has like a stack of fifteen hundred of mine.

Thanks.

Bastian Schweinsteiger.

OCTOBER 18TH

Dear Lukas,

It's hard not to think about you when I go to coffee shops. I think I'm a romantic or some crap like that. Or maybe I'm just hopeless. Hope you're well.

Thanks.

Bastian Schweinsteiger.

OCTOBER 21ST

Dear Lukas,

Does postage still exist because I'm the only one in the world who still sends letters?

Thanks.

Bastian Schweinsteiger.

OCTOBER 23RD

Dear Lukas,

I hope you haven't injured yourself yet. Also, you owe me a game in FIFA. And, like, 800 dollars in stamps.

Thanks.

Bastian Schweinsteiger.

OCTOBER 31ST

Dear Lukas,

Boo.

Did I scare you?

Thanks.

Bastian Schweinsteiger.

NOVEMBER 12TH

Dear Lukas,

Sorry for the lack of letters in the last couple of days. Philipp hates it when I come to the post to send you stuff. He thinks I'm cheating.

Thanks.

Bastian Schweinsteiger.

NOVEMBER 17TH

Dear Lukas,

I hope these damn letters are going through. Because I haven't gotten any from you.

Thanks.

Bastian Schweinsteiger.

NOVEMBER 19TH

Dear Lukas,

I was thinking about us. Even if you have Miro back again (Manuel told me). And I guess I do too. Well, I do, but I don't know. I miss you, even if I shouldn't.

Thanks.

Bastian Schweinsteiger.

NOVEMBER 30TH

Dear Lukas,

Will you send me a letter some day?

Thanks.

Bastian Schweinsteiger.

DECEMBER 13TH

Dear Lukas,

Guess not. My feelings are hurt.

Thanks.

Basti.

DECEMBER 18TH

I wish we could go back. I know, it's crappy. But. Whatever.

It's just that...I wish we could remember what we even fought for.

Thanks.

Basti.

DECEMBER 23RD

Dear Lukas,

It's almost Christmas.

I hope you get this letter.

Thanks.

Basti.

DECEMBER 25TH

It's 2 a.m. I'm in my room.

There are headlights passing the window pane constantly tonight.

Maybe they're going home.

I'm thinking of you.

I heard that you broke up with your boyfriend.

I hope you're good.

Thanks.

Basti.

DECEMBER 31ST

I wish you would come back.

Maybe just for a day.

You don't have to see me if you don't want to.

Basti.

JANUARY 2ND

You give me everything, and nothing, I've realized.

Everything as in your attention.

Nothing as in letters back.

Basti.

JANUARY 28TH

Maybe I'm pathetic.

Basti.

FEBRUARY 14TH

I don't hate you, if that's what you think. I'm thinking about you kissing me, all those years ago. Philipp and I broke up last week.

Basti.

FEBRUARY 26TH

I guess you still don't know what I said after I hung up the phone.

Basti.

MARCH 27TH

I wish I'd never hung up the phone like I did.

APRIL 2ND

I hope you're well.

Thanks.

Bastian Schweinsteiger.

MAY 12TH

Will you come back over the summer?

Basti.

JUNE 15TH.

I wish you knew that I miss you too much to be mad anymore.

I sound clingy.

Sorry.

JUNE 29TH

I wish you were right here. Right now.

I sound pathetic.

Like always.

Maybe you're shoving these letters into the incinerator.

Good for you, then.

Basti.

JULY 18TH

It's all good. I hope you're good.

Basti.

AUGUST 1ST

I hate München, I've realized.

Basti.

AUGUST 20TH

I heard you got back together with Miro again. Again.

SEPTEMBER 9TH

I hope you too are in love. You and Miro were always good for each other.

SEPTEMBER 10TH

Actually, I just hope you're happy.

SEPTEMBER 11TH

I realize how bitter that sounded.

Sorry.

SEPTEMBER 24TH

I heard you two broke up. Again.

OCTOBER 1ST

It's been a year since I've started sending these stupid letters.

Bastian Schweinsteiger.

OCTOBER 2ND

I don't know why I still bother.

OCTOBER 16TH

Maybe because you were with me once, and laid next to me when no one else thought about laying next to me.  
Maybe that was better in my head. Never mind, I guess.

NOVEMBER 6TH

I wish you would come back. I really, really wish you would come back. I wish I didn't do what I did, and if I didn't, we'd still be together. I wish that you'd be right here, right now.

DECEMBER 20TH

I wish you'd knew that I'll never forget you as long as I live, Lukas, because you're clearly not getting these letters.

DECEMBER 22ND

Unless you're just ignoring me, of course.

DECEMBER 25TH

Dear Lukas,

It's Weihnachten. I just wanted to say that I love you, and hope that maybe someday you'll come see me again.

Bastian Schweinsteiger.

DECEMBER 31ST

I miss you, and I love you. I wish you'd just realize that.

Basti.

JANUARY 1ST

I kinda wish you were the one I kissed last night. Don't worry; the only person I kissed was my mother.

Basti.

JANUARY 2ND

Not that you would be worried, of course.

JANUARY 14TH

Thomas told me you said you were in love. I hope you are.

JANUARY 19TH

Apparently, you didn't say you were in love. You said you used to be in love.

I wonder who you were in love with, really.

JANUARY 26TH

I kinda wish it was me.

JANUARY 27TH

Well, only kinda.

FEBRUARY 3RD

I wish you would come back to see me.

FEBRUARY 13TH

I wish you only loved me again.

Basti.

FEBRUARY 14TH

I'm coming back next week.And guess what? I miss you too, Bastian Schweinsteiger. I also have this odd disease called, well, um, giving people the cold shoulder. Seems to be okay now. I realized that I love you back.

Took a hell of a long time.

Sorry about that.

Thanks.

Lukas Podolski

**vii. PRAGMA**

The last is proud, more than anything else.

There's shaking at his forearm.

"Basti, what are you doing?"

The memories fade to a sharp black, and the cold air cuts like a knife.

Inhaling sharply, Bastian jerks, instinctively pulling away from the warm, soothing hand that clutches his bicep.

Turning around, he sees none other than the brunette of his dreams in front of him, but with hair greyed like his own, cheeks beginning to sag. 

"Lukas, I-"

His partner shakes his head, concerned.

"You're crying. What's happened, Bastian? Why are you out here without a coat, and crying? God, please don't tell me Miroslav's kicked the bucket, because-"

Touching his own face gently, as if terrified that it'll melt off, Bastian's fingers meet the salty wetness of his tears.

"I - I - I...I'm sorry, Lukas. I was just...thinking back to old times, to all those Valentine's Days so many years ago..."

"God, were we pathetic back in the day. Anyways, Basti-"

"We weren't pathetic. We were...in love. I was in love. I've been affected by so many different types of love. Your love. My mother's love. Tobi's love. Striker's love. Thomas' love. Louis' love-"

"Speak of the devil. Well, I don't know if you want to call him that. I came out here to tell you-"

"And the terrible thing is I never realized how fucking important it all was - this idea of love. I always thought it was some stupid, cliché thing that couples claimed they have as an excuse for, well, just about everything."

"Basti, listen to me-

"I love you, Lukas. I love you, I love you, I love you. And I'm proud. I'm proud of what we were, I'm proud of what we made, I'm proud of what we became, I'm proud of what we are now. I'm proud to call you my true love, my husband, my one and only-

"Basti, Louis is on the phone."

Thrusting the little black phone forward, Lukas turns to depart. But before he does, he first reaches up, gently, with his sleeve, and wipes his partner's cheeks once more, to clean off any remaining residue of Bastian's wistful sorrow.

"There you go. Now talk to your son, Bastian."

Bastian nods, and his words fly like birds in the night, fluttering unbeknownst to anybody but those who pay attention.

"Hi, Louis. I've missed you."

His son's words are animated, and Bastian's heart warms as his son's voice inflects, harmonious as it voices aggravations about college, hopes about life, and open dreams for the future.

"Hey, Louis?"

"- and I - wait, what? Papa, didn't I tell you not to interrupt me?"

"Yes, I know, but I wanted to tell you something-"

"Yes, Papa?"

"I love you."

"I know, Papa. I know. Now, as I was saying..."

A distant bell is struck, and the seventh degree does its final arabesque on Bastian's fragile heart - for now he truly understands what love is.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed, dear reader. (And yes, Philautia was a Taylor Swift reference, because Max wrote it and he's obsessed with her.)
> 
> Some personal notes:  
> Mavis: I hope I haven't disappointed you, and that you enjoyed this little work. I feel as if I didn't include enough Schweinski - but I hope it worked out in the end.  
> Serena: Max and I hope to god we haven't disappointed you, either, considering we changed your original prompt so much. We hoped this lived up to expectations.  
> Sarah: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU for editing this/looking this over for me. I highly appreciate it. I hope, my love, that I can return the favor soon.
> 
> If you all want to explore the seven degrees of love a little further, I direct you [here](http://www.southbankcentre.co.uk/whatson/festivals-series/festival-of-love/the-seven-kinds-of-love).
> 
> Again - thank you for reading. Comments and kudos are, as always, appreciated - concrit is always welcome.
> 
> I hope your Valentine's Day is dear, my reader - whether you are alone or together, may all of your dreams one day realize themselves. Love truly works miracles.
> 
>  _“Doubt thou the stars are fire;_  
>  _Doubt that the sun doth move;_  
>  _Doubt truth to be a liar;_  
>  _But never doubt I love.”_  
>  ― William Shakespeare, Hamlet
> 
> -Leon


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